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pctureg of Jllemorp 

Compilation of 

SAMUEL FRANCIS WOOLARD 



Copyrighted June, 1908 
by 

Sam F. Woolard 


Copyrighted 1909 
by 

The Goldsmith-Woolard Publishing Co. 
Wichita, Kansas, U. S. A. 
and 

Entered at Stationers Hall 
London, England 


Fiftieth Thousand 


The Musson Book Co., Limited 
Toronto, Canada London, England 


U3RARY Of CONGRESS 
Two Cooi(;» R'jctifVed 

m zi it**** 

V CopyriKht :,Uy 






That viewing it we seem almost to obtain 
Our innocent sweet simple years again. 

—Cowper. 


It is my hope that the contents of this little volume 
may touch the heart of the man or woman whose 
childhood days are worthy of remembrance—that 
while reading you may live over again those happy 
hours which were so full of love and life in their true 
sense; although to you they may have seemed crowded 
with disappointments and heart aches. Then, as 
now, it took “Breakers” to develop a keen appreciation 
of the joy that was ours, and prepare for the mixture 
of happiness and sorrow that comes into every life that 
is made worth living. 

May the father and mother in reading, live over 
again the childhood days of their children. Their 
hearts will be gladdened and saddened in these remi¬ 
niscences, but in the end, strengthened. 

It is my belief that in reading these sentiments the 
child of today may receive an increased impulse to 
make the most of these “Perfect Days” that to them 
will never come again. 


Samuel Francis Woolard 


pictures o! JWemorp ( 


Page \ 
Five / 


THE BABY 

Where did you come from baby dear? 

Out of the everywhere into the here. 

Where did you get your eyes so blue? 

Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? 

Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear? 

I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? 

A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? 

Something better than anyone knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? 

Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get that pearly ear? 

God spoke and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands? 

Love made itself into hooks and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? 

From the same box as the cherub's wings. 

How did they all just come to be you? 

God thought about me , and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear? 

God thought of you , and so I am here. 

—George MacDonald 


A CHILD’S LAUGH 

Strike with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy 
harp strung with Apollo’s golden hair; fill the vast 
cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft 
touches of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow until 
the silver notes do touch and kiss the moonlight waves, 
and charm the lovers wandering midst the vine-clad 
hills: but know your sweetest strains are discords all, 
compared with childhood’s happy laugh—the laugh 
that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. 

—Robert J. Ingersoll 


( Page 
Six 


) pictures of JWemorp 


MOTHER’S BOY 

Where has he gone to, Mother’s boy, 

Little plaid dresses and curls of joy? 

Who is this gentleman, haughty in glance, 
Walking around in a new pair of pants? 

Where has he vanished, the little Sir Smile 
That mother once folded in gentle beguile? 

Who is the stranger that comes in his place? 

The very same eyes and the very same face, 

But, oh, the lost babyhood 1 Come back if you can 
From the stream that is drifting you onward 
to man I 

—Folger McKinsey 


TO A LITTLE GIRL OF YESTERDAY 

Little girl of yesterday, 

You have left us, so they say; 

All of your childish ways are gone, 

Cometh now the sad, sweet dawn 
Of womanhood, and mystery, 

Of the life that is to be. 

Was it not just yesterday 
That you put your dolls away? 

Just a little while ago 

When you romped and chattered so— 

Chattered early, chattered late, 

Now you’re silent and sedate. 

Little sweetheart, yesterday, 

You departed, so they say; 

But, perhaps, it is not true, 

Everything they say of you. 

For I wish that you might stay 
As you were just yesterday, 

Dancing down the paths of May 
In your wilful, witching way— 

Then you might not deem it bold 
Just to love me as of old. 


—Robert V. Carr 


IMcttireS of JWemorp ( Seven ) 


AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES 

Among the beautiful pictures 
That hang on Memory’s wall, 

Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all; 

Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe: 

Not for the violets golden 
That sprinkle the vale below; 

Not for the milk-white lilies, 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their golden edge; 

Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest, 

Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, 
It seemeth to me the best, 

I once had a little brother 

With eyes that were dark and deep; 

In the lap of that dim old forest 
He lieth in peace asleep; 

Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 

We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago; 

But his feet on the hills grew weary 
And, one of the autumn eves, 

I made for my little brother 
A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 
My neck in a meek embrace, 

As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face; 

And when the arrows of sunset 
Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 

He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 

Therefore, of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory’s wall, 

The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all. 

Alice Cary 

Courteously permitted by 
Houghton-Mifflin & Co. 


( Page 
V Eight 


) 


pictures! of Jfflemorp 


IN THE BABY’S EYES 

What is the dream in the baby’s eyes, 

As he lies and blinks in a mute surprise? 

With little wee hands that aimlessly go 
Hither and thither and to and fro; 

With little, wee feet that shall lead him—God know®. 
But a prayer from my heart like a benison goes; 
Bundle of helplessness, yonder he lies— 

What is the dream in my baby’s eyes? 

What does he wonder and what does he know? 

That we have forgotten so long, long ago? 

Bathed in the dawnlight, what does he see 
That slow years have hidden from you and me? 

Out of the yesterday seeth he yet 

The things that in living he soon shall forget, 

All that is hidden beyond the blue skies? 

What is the dream in my baby’s eyes? 

Speak to me, little one, ere you forget 
What is the thought that is lingering there yet? 

Where is the land where the yesterdays meet, 

Waiting and waiting the morrows to greet? 

You wee, funny fellow, who only will blink, 

What do you wonder and what do you think? 

Bright as the moonlight asleep in the skies, 

What is the dream in my baby’s eyes? 

—Tom Cordry 


















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Page \ 
Nine ) 


THE LITTLE GABLE WINDOW 

There's a little gable window in a cottage far away, 

Where a child in purple twilights used to softly kneel 
and pray, 

While across the marge of evening fell the darkness, 
and the stars 

Peeped in tender benediction over Heaven's silver bars. 

Softly thro’ the gathering shadows breathed that 
little, tender prayer, 

For the undimmed faith of childhood knows a far 
diviner air. 

God was good and so was mother, sunny moments 
stretched before, 

And the after dreams were colored by the hues the 
future wore. 

There's a little gable window in a cottage far away 

Where a maiden used to linger at the closing of the day, 

Face as fresh and fair as May-time, lips of laughter, 
eyes of blue, 

Dreaming lightly of the future with a heart sincere and 
true. 

All the winds that blew to meet her sang of happy days 
to be 

When the rose of life should blossom in a land beyond 
the sea. 

Hand in hand with love eternal all the future way 
seemed fair; 

In that little olden cottage Youth had never met with 
care. 

Ah, the years have brought me sorrow—I am tired and 
weary now, 

There is silver in my tresses, there are lines upon my 
brow, 

And my heart is filled with longing just once more to 
kneel and pray 

By the little gable window of that cottage for away. 

—L. M. Montgomery 


( Page 
Ten 


) 


•pictures of jfflemorp 


FATHER’S CHICKEN 

My mother thinks that father ought to always have 
the best, 

And she has got him so he thinks he’s better’n all the 
rest. 

She gets his evening paper out when he comes home at 
night, 

And drags around his easy chair and tries to use him 
right. 

And when we all sit down to eat she never blinks a 
lash, 

But hands him out some chicken and helps us kids to 
hash. 

My mother says that home should be in our affections 
first, 

But father thinks its just the place for him to act the 
worst. 

When he’s in town he jokes and laughs and uses people 
kind, 

But when he starts for home at night he leaves his 
smiles behind. 

He snarls about the dinner, and he calls the victuals 
trash, 

So mother feeds him chicken and fills us up on hash. 

But after father’s rested and has had his evening 
smoke, 

He always feels lots better and he likes to play and 
and joke. 

He helps us with our lessons, and he does it in a way 

That makes them entertaining, and seem just as plain 
as day. 

And sometimes, when we go to bed, he hands us out 
some cash, 

So let him have his chicken, we’ll get along with hash. 

—Chas. F. Hardy 


pictures of Jflemorp ( ^Z) 


BABY’S PRAYER 

When the twilight deep has fallen then my baby comes 
to me, 

Robed in white, all dressed for Dreamland, and she 
bends low at my knee; 

And her little hands are folded in a reverential way, 
And two little eyes look upward as two little sweet 
lips say: 

“Now I ’ay me down to s’eep, 

I p’ay the Lord my soul to teep.” 

And I know the Father listens, 

And it pleases Him, up there, 

When my baby, dressed for dreamland, 
Kneels to say her evening prayer. 

There’s a silence in the shadows where the firelight 
softly plays, 

And a dreamy calm comes o’er me when my baby 
kneels and prays; 

All my doubting fancies leave me, and the trials of 
earth flee, 

As I bow my head and listen to my baby’s plaintive 
plea: 

“If I s’ood die before I wate, 

I p’ay the Lord my soul to tate.” 

And a holy hush steals o’er me 
And pervades the evening air, 

When my baby, dressed for Dreamland, 
Kneels to say her evening prayer. 

And I often sit and ponder, as I hear the sweet lips 
pray, 

What would life on earth be to me should I miss that 
voice some day? 

If perchance I felt no nestling, dimpled hand within 
my own, 

As my baby knelt beside me, lisping in an undertone: 
“Now I ’ay me down to s’eep, 

I p’ay the Lord my soul to teep.” 

And I bless the God who gave her, 

And her love with Him I share, 

When my baby, dressed for Dreamland, 
Kneels to say her evening prayer. 

—E. A. Brininstool 

Used by permission of the 

United Society of Christian Endeavor, 

Owners of copyright 


( Page 
Twelve 


) pictures! of Jfflcmorp 


THE CONSOLATION 

My dear Wife: 

The messenger you sent to tell me of the death of 
our little daughter missed his way. But, I heard of it 
through another. 

I pray you to let all things be done without cere¬ 
mony or timorous superstition. And let us bear our 
afflictions with patience. I do know very well what a 
loss we have had; but, if you should grieve overmuch 
it would trouble me still more. She was particularly 
dear to you; and when you call to mind how bright 
and innocent she was, how amiable and mild, then 
your grief must be peculiarly bitter. 

But should the sweet remembrance of those things 
which so delighted us when she was alive only afflict 
us now, when she is dead? Or is there danger that, 
if we cease to mourn, we shall forget her? But since 
she gave us so much pleasure while we had her, so 
ought we to cherish her memory, and make that mem¬ 
ory a glad rather than a sorrowful one. And such 
reasons as we would use with others, let us try to make 
effective with ourselves. And as we put a limit to all 
riotous indulgence in our pleaures, so let us also check 
the excessive flow of our grief. It is well, both in 
action and word, to shrink from an over display in 
mourning, as well as to be modest and unassuming on 
festival occasions. 

Let us also call to mind the years before our little 
daughter was born. We are now in the same con¬ 
dition as then, except that the time she was with us is 
to be counted as an added blessing. Let us not un¬ 
gratefully accuse fortune for what was given us, 
because we could not also have all that was desired. 
What we had, and while we had it, was good, though 
we have it no longer. 

Remember also how much good you still possess. 
Because one page of your book was blotted, do not 
forget all the other leaves whose reading is fair and 
whose pictures are beautiful. We should not be like 
misers, who never enjoy what they have, but only 
bewail what they lose. 

And, since she has gone where she feels no pain, 
let us not indulge in too much grief. The soul is 
incapable of death. And she, like a bird not long 
enough in her cage to become attached to it, is free to 
fly away to purer air. For when the young die their 
souls go at once to a better and a divine state. Since 
we cherish a trust like this, let our outward actions be 
in accord with it, and let ug keep our hearts pure and 
our minds calm. 


—Plutarch 


littturejS of jftlemorp ( 


Page \ 
Thirteen / 


JOY 

I never knew the joy of getting home, 

I never knew how fast a heart could beat; 

I never tasted joy, 

Till the day my little boy 

Came running up to meet me on the street. 

I never knew the pleasure of a smile, 

I never knew the music of a voice 
Till I heard my baby greet me, 

On this day he ran to meet me 
In a way that made my weary heart rejoice. 

I never knew a welcome half so true, 

Till I heard his “Hello, daddy1” down the street; 
And though weary as could be, 

When he scampered up to me, 

There was comfort in the patter of his feet. 

I never knew the charm of laughing eyes, 

I never knew how happy I could be; 

I never knew the cheer 
That makes worry disappear, 

Till the day my baby first ran up to me. 

—Edgar A. Guest in The Detroit Free Press 


NO BABY IN THE HOUSE 

No baby in the house, I know, 

’Tis far too nice and clean. 

No toys, by careless finger’s strewn, 

Upon the floors are seen, 

No finger-marks are on the panes, 

No scratches on the chairs; 

No wooden men set up in rows, 

Or marshalled off in pairs; 

No little stockings to be darned, 

All ragged at the toes; 

No pile of mending to be done, 

Made up of baby-clothes; 

No little troubles to be soothed; 

No little hands to fold; 

No grimy fingers to be washed; 

No stories to be told; 

No tender kisses to be given; 

No nicknames, “Dove” and “Mouse” 

No merry frolics after tea,— 

No baby in the house! 

—Clara G. Dolliver 


( Page 
Fourteen 


) 


pictures of Jffletnorp 


MAMMA’S P’ECIOUS DIRL 

Dess you wonders who I am, 

Wiv my pitty s’oes 
An’ my ’ittle hat tied on 
So it tannot lose, 

An’ my jess ’at mamma made— 

See my ying: it’s pearl! 

Dot a lot of fings, because 
I’m mamma’s p’ecious dirl. 

Doughin’ down to Sadie’s house— 

Mamma said I tould; 

Said I must tome home at 6 
An’ be awsel dood, 

Sadie’s dot some rabbits an’ 

A white mouse and a ’quir’l— 

Won’t none of ’em bite me, tause 
I’m mamma’s p’ecious dirl. 

Dot a woolly sheep at home 
What tan holler “Bah!” 

When you ’queeze ’im, an’ a doll 
What tan say, “Mam-ma!” 

Dot anuzzer wiv blue eyes 
An’ a dolden turl, 

An’ a whole big lots of toys— 

For mamma’s p’ecious dirl. 

’Fore I doughs to sleep at night 
Wiv mamma up ’tairs 
She kneels down right by the bed 
An’ helps me say my p’ayers, 

Askin’ Dod to b’ess me, well 
As all at’s in the worl’— 

But den I dess he would, because 
I’m mamma’s p’ecious dirl. 

—Chicago Record-Herald 


































































































































































































































































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^Pictures of jfflemorp ( 


Page 

Fifteen 


OUR CHILD 

“Little life from out the life divine, 

Little heart so near and dear to mine, 

Little bark new-launched upon life’s sea 
Floating o’er the tide to mine and me, 

Little comer on our shore of Time, 

Little ray from out God’s great sublime, 

Little traveler from eternity, 

May my love protect and shelter thee. 

“In the passage through our human state 
Many dark and dreary days await; 

Many are the burdens must be borne; 

Many are the times our hearts are torn, 

These are in the pathway, little one, 

Ere thy journey through our world is"done. 

From the stings of all adversity 
May my love protect and shelter thee. 

“For enwrapped invisibly thou art 
In a tendril reaching from my heart; 

And around thy tiny form entwine 
Love-chords from thy mother’s heart and mine. 
From some land of morning hast thou come, 

Like a gleam of sunshine in our home; 

And, my child, what e’er thy lot may be 
May our love protect and shelter thee.” 

—The Denver News 


“THE CRADLE” 

How steadfastly she’d worked at it; 

How lovingly had drest, 

With all her would-be mother’s wit, 
That little rosy nest. 

How lovingly she’d hang on it; 

It sometimes seemed, she said.. 
There lay beneath its coverlet 
A little sleeping head. 

He came at last, the tiny guest, 

Ere bleak December fled; 

That rosy nest he never prest— 

Her coffin was his bed. 


—Austin Dobson 


) pictures of Jfflemorp 


/ Page 
V Sixteen 

IS THERE A SANTA CLAUS? 

From The Sun of September 21, 1897. 

We take pleasure in answering at once and thus 
prominently the communication below, expressing at 
the same time our great gratification that its faithful 
author is numbered among the friends of The Sun: 

“Dear Editor: I am 8 years old. 

“Some of my little friends say there is no Santa 
Claus. 

“Papa says Tf you see it in The Sun it’s so/ 

“Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus? 

“Virginia O’Hanlon. 

“115 West Ninety-Fifth Street.” 

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have 
been affected by the scepticism of a sceptical age. They 
do not believe except they see. They think that noth¬ 
ing can be which is not comprehensible by their little 
minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or 
children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man 
is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared 
with the boundless world about him, as measured by 
the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth 
and knowledge. 

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists 
as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, 
and you know that they abound and give to your life 
its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be 
the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be 
as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would 
be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to 
make tolerable this existence. We should have no 
enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal 
light with which childhood fills the world would be 
extinguished. 

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not 
believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire 
men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve 
to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa 
Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody 
sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no 
Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are 
those that neither children nor men can see. Did you 
ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, 
but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody 
can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen 
and unseeable in the world. 


pictures of illcmorp ( 


Page \ 
Seventeen / 


You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what 
makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the 
unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even 
the united strength of all the strongest men that ever 
lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, 
love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view 
and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is 
it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is 
nothing else real and abiding. 

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he 
lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, 
nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will 
continue to make glad the heart of childhood. 


JES’ PAST CHRISTMAS 

Jes’ past Christmas, an’, by cracky, I 
Feel so blame natural, seems like I could fly, 

Been so prim and proper for a long time past, 

Seemed to me, by jinks, ’twas alius goin’ to last! 

Had to go to Sunday school, reg’lar, once a week; 
’Spected me on other days to be quietlike and meek; 
Got so tired of sayin’ yes’m, polite an’ with a smirk 
’Stid of talkin’ back to folks—say, ’twas worse’n work. 

Couldn’t sass my mother; had to mind my dad; 

Didn’t dast to lick a kid, an’ oh, but it was bad! 
Reckoned that I’d get some skates, a fur cap an’ a sled, 
An’ figgered on a tippet with flaring ends of red. 

I didn’t get a dod darned thing I wanted, not a toy, 
An’ the Sunday school’s reward to me was a motto 
’bout a boy 

Who always was so very good the whole year round 
by gee: 

That I knowed the printed card they sent was never 
meant for me. 

I ate so much on Christmas though, the doctor had to 
take 

Heroic measures with me; I had such a belly-ache; 

I thought I’d die, but then I knew about jes’ where I 
stood 

An’ was sure of bliss above, for I had been so good. 

But now I’m feelin’ better, an’ life’s again a joy, 

An’ with Christmas safely over, I’m once again—jes’ 
boy. 


—Edwin J. Park 


( Page 
Eighteen 


) pictures of jftlemorp 


THE LITTLE MAID’S “AMEN” 

A rustle of robes as the anthem 
Soared gently away on the air— 

The Sabbath morn’s service was over, 

And briskly I stepped down the stair, 

When, close in a half-lighted comer, 

Where the tall pulpit stairway come down, 
Asleep crouched a tender, wee maiden, 

With hair like a shadowy crown. 

Quite puzzled was I by the vision, 

But gently to wake her I spoke; 

When, at the first word, the small damsel, 
With one little gasp, straight awoke. 

“What brought you here, fair little angel?'* 
She answered, with a voice like a bell: 

“I turn tos I’ve dot a sick mamma, 

And want 'ou to please pray her well!” 

“Who told you?” began I—she stopped me; 
“Don’t nobody told me at all; 

And papa can’t see tos he’s cryin’, 

And 'sides, sir, I isn’t so small. 

“I’se been here before with my mamma— 

We turned when you ringed the big bell; 

And ev’ry time I’se heard you prayin’, 

For lots of sick folks to dit well.” 

Together we knelt on the stairway, 

As humbly I asked the Great Power 
To give back health to the mother, 

And banish bereavement’s dark hour. 

I finished the simple petition, 

And paused for a moment—and then 
A sweet little voice at my elbow 
Lisped softly and gently “Amen!” 

Hand in hand we turned our steps homeward- 
The little maid’s tongue knew no rest; 

She prattled and mimicked and carolled— 
The shadow was gone from her breast; 

And lo! when we reached the fair dwelling— 
The nest of my golden-haired waif— 

We found that the dearly loved mother 
Was past the dread crisis—and safe. 


^Pictures of jfWemorp ( 


Page \ 
Nineteen / 


They listened, amazed at my story, 

And wept o’er their darling’s strange quest, 
While the arms of the pale, loving mother 
Drew the brave little head to her breast. 

With eyes that were brimming and grateful 
They thanked me again and again; 

Yet I knew in my heart that the blessing 
Was won by that gentle “Amen.” 

—Authorship Unknown 


THE GOOD NIGHT KISS 

I am tired of tongues that are lying 
In their cunning schemes for gain— 

I am tired of worry and sighing 
That ravish the soul and brain— 

And I long for the peace of the wildwood 
Near the dear old home that I miss, 

And the happy trust of childhood, 

And mother’s good night kiss. 

I am tired of faces smiling 
In deceit to hide the frown— 

And life’s false joys beguiling 
The soul but to drag it down; 

And I long once more to listen 
To the sound of a step I miss— 

That I knew when the tears would glisten 
At my mother’s good night kiss. 

I am tired of all the idols 
That claim a right to my heart— 

I am tired of falsehoods’ bridles 
That are worn by all in the mart. 

And it’s ever the words that were spoken 
In truth and love that I miss— 

When each night I received their token 
In my mother’s good night kiss. 

I am tired of living and learning 
That the false exceeds the true— 

I am tired with years of yearning 
For a love like my childhood knew. 

When life seemed not deceiving, 

And I dreamed it held but bliss— 

When I slept in peace believing 
In mother’s good night kiss. 

—W. D. Humphrey 


( Twenty ) Pictures! of jHemorp 


MY PA WON’T PLAY WITH ME 

My paw he’s the bestest man, he brings me lots of toys, 

And candy, too, and all sich things, what’s good for 
little boys; 

He lets me go to circusses and spend my money free, 

He buys me lots of Sunday clothes; but he won’t play 
with me. 

Most every evening after tea, I gits my ball to play, 

And ask my paw to catch it, but he’s alius sure to say: 

“Don’t bother, son—I’m busy now; go on to bed,” 
says he. 

Then I go off a wishin’ that my paw would play with me. 

Sometimes when I kneel down at night, just sorter so, 
to pray, 

Old Nick slides in betwixt the lines, and almost makes 
me say: 

Oh, Lord, send me a paw what ain’t got so much 
biz’, so’s he 

Can find a little weency, teency time to play with me.” 

I spects that great big mens don’t want to have some 
fun no way; 

And maybe ’twouldn’t look just right to see them run 
and play; 

But I jis’ can’t help thinkin’ sir, what great sport 
’twould be 

If paw’d been bom a little boy, so he could play with me. 

Some day when I feel sorter tough, with sand up in my 
craw, 

And ain’t a-skeered of gettin’ licked, I’ll bet I tells my 
paw; 

“Say, dad, if you jis’ want to be right up to date you see, 

You’d better come down off your perch and learn to 
play with me.” 

I ain’t much on philosophy, but I got it on my slate, 

Jis’ chalked it down in black and white, and feel com¬ 
pelled to state; 

“Of course, I loves my paw, and then he loves me, too, 
but we 

Could love each other better if he’d only play with me.” 

—W. Halleck Mansfield 


gam 


























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Page \ 
Twenty-One/ 


NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP 

“Now I lay me down to sleep: 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,” 

Was my childhood’s early prayer 
Taught by mother’s love and care. 

Many years since then have fled; 

Mother slumbers with the dead; 

Yet methinks I see her now, 

With love-lit eye and holy brow, 

As, kneeling by her side to pray, 

She gently taught me how to say, 

“Now I lay me down to sleep: 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” 

Oh! could the faith of childhood’s days, 

Oh! could its little hymns of praise, 

Oh! could its simple, joyous trust 
Be recreated from the dust 
That lies around a wasted life, 

The fruit of many a bitter strife! 

Oh! then at night in prayer I’d bend 
And call my God, my Father, Friend, 

And pray with childlike faith once more 
The prayer my mother taught of yore,— 
“Now I lay me down to sleep: 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” 

—Eugene Henry Pullen 


THE DISTURBER 

Did anyone ever tell you 
To “stop makin’ such a noise,” 

When you wuz a-playin’ Injun, 

An’ war-whoopin’ with the boys? 

Did anyone ever tell you 

To “wipe your feet on the mat?” 

Or, “If you come in, be quiet, 

But first take off your hat?” 

Didn’t any one ever tell you 

Your manners wuz loud and bold? 

Then I guess you’re one of the grown-ups, 
And not a boy nine years old. 


■Exchange 


(Twenty-Two ) $ttturess of jitemorp 


I LOVE TO HEAR YOU WHISTLE 

Oh, I love to hear you whistle 

When you’re coming home at night, 
Though the way be dark and dismal, 

Or the stars are shining bright, 

Ah, ’tis true you do not know it, 

But it thrills me with delight, 

If I hear you gaily whistle 

When you’re coming home at night. 

In this world of sin and sorrow, 

There are haunts to lure the gay, 

And I would not have you venture 
Where you would not dare to pray. 

Then I listen in the silence 

For your footsteps quick and light, 

And ere long I hear you whistle, 

When you’re coming home at night. 

If I’m waiting in the darkness— 

For a mother waits, you know— 

And the dismal wind is sighing, 

And the clock is ticking slow, 

All the singing of the angels 
Could not give me such delight 
As the music of your whistle, 

When you’re coming home at night. 

For I know your mind is merry, 

And I know your heart is gay, 

And I’m sure you’ve not been walking 
In the paths that lead astray. 

If your heart had lost its music, 

And your soul had lost its sight, 

You would never come a-whistling 
When you’re coming home at night. 

—Irene McMillan Glanville 

(Lyrics of .the West.) 


THE INTRUDER 

# He is so little to be so bold! 

Why, he came to the house (so I’ve been told) 
And his very first call 
Sufficed to install 

The waif on our premises, once for all. 
Somehow or other the rogue got in 
And claims to be of our kith and kin! 


pictures of JWemorp ( 


He is so little to be so loved! 

He came unbooted, ungarbed, ungloved, 

Naked and shameless, 

Beggared and blameless, 

And, for all he could tell us, even nameless! 

Yet every one in the house bows down 
As if the mendicant wore a crown. 

He is so little to be so loud! 

O, I own that I should be wondrous proud 
If I had a tongue, 

All swiveled and swung, 

With a double-back-action, twin-screw lung 
Which brought me victual and keep and care, 
Whenever, I shook the surrounding air. 

He is so little to be so sweet! 

You can see that he wouldn’t count much as me 

Seven pounds or eight 

Isn’t very much weight 

To be sold on the hoof, yet I dare state 

Some extravagant buyer might be found 

To offer as much as a dime the pound. 

He is so little to be so large! 

Why, a train of cars or a whale-back barge 
Couldn’t carry the freight 
Of the monstrous weight 
Of all of his qualities, good and great. 

And though one view is as good as another, 

Don’t take my word for it. Ask his mother! 

—Edmund Vance Cooke 

laken from Chronicles of the 
Little Tot, eopyright, 1906 by the 
Dodge Publishing Co., used by permission. 


\ 


MY LOSS 

Day after day, while at my window sitting, 

I see the children at their play near by; 
Like butterflies in summer gardens flitting, 
They hover round beneath my watchful eye. 

The little girls, with flushed and merry faces, 
Glance at me shyly for my answering smile, 
And tempt me with their most alluring graces 
To put sad thoughts away while they beguile, 


(Twenty-Four) $ittureS of JWemorp 


Blond hair and brown in soft confusion blending, 
Black eyes and blue upturned to meet my gaze, 

Roses both white and pink their contrast lending, 

To add new beauty to the ’wildering maze. 

But when they one by one, tired out with playing, 
Steal slowly homeward through the sunset light, 

Memory goes back beyond the dark years, straying 
Among the days of yore, that seem so bright,— 

I turn my head, a radiant, golden splendor 
Shines from the west across the pictured wall, 

And glorifies a face divinely tender, 

With bronze-brown hair waved round it, fall on fall; 

With violet eyes so winsome in their sweetness, 

That mine grow smiling spite of grief and pain, 

With curved lips, the seal of love’s completeness; 

Ah, Heaven! could I but press them once again. 

In vain I watch and wait, she will come only 
When night has cast her spell on sea and shore; 

Then when I sleep and dream, no longer lonely, 

She comes to feed my hungry heart once more. 

’Tis then and only then that I behold her; 

Her dear voice floats around me soft and low; 

’Tis then, and only then, my arms enfold her, 

The little girl I lost so long ago. 

—Susan V. Newhall in Boston Transcript 


MOTHERHOOD 

My neighbor’s boy across the way 
Lies dead; and I must go to her and say 
Something of comfort—ah, what shall it be? 
“Grieve not, poor heart, that he is gone 
from thee: 

Thy bitter tears—thy cruel, lonely pain— 
Perchance are for some larger, nobler gain—” 
I cannot—no! for safe upon my breast 
My own dear bairnie smiles in rosy rest. 

Ah—what if I were she, bereft, denied— 

And he—dear God! the little boy that died! 

—Laura Simmons 

Reprint from Lippincott’s Magazine by permission 
of J. B. Lippincott Company 
owners of copyright. 


pictures; of JWemorp ( 


EXTRACTS FROM FARMINGTON 

AN IDYL OF BOYHOOD 

By Clarence S. Darrow 

Childhood is the happiest time of life, because the 
past is so wholly forgotten, the present so fleeting, and 
the future so endlessly long. 

The difference between the child and the man lies 
chiefly in the unlimited confidence and buoyancy of 
youth. The past failure is wholly forgotten in the 
new idea. As we grow older, more and more do we 
remember how our plans fell short; more and more do 
we realize that no hope reaches full fruition and no 
dream is ever quite fulfilled. Age and life make us 
doubtful about new schemes, until at last we no longer 
even try. 

It is rarely indeed that the child is able to prevent 
the sorrows of the man or woman; and when he can 
prevent them, and really knows he can, no man or 
woman ever looks in vain to him for sympathy and 
help. 

The joys of childhood are keen, and the sorrows of 
childhood are deep. Years alone bring the knowledge 
that in thought and in feeling, as in the heavens above, 
sunshine and clouds follow each other in quick suc¬ 
cession. In childhood the shadows are wholly for¬ 
gotten in the brilliant redness of the sun, and the clouds 
are so deep as to obscure for a time all the heavens 
above. 

All my life I have been planning and hoping and 
thinking and dreaming and loitering and waiting. 
All my life I have been getting ready to begin to-do 
something worth while. I have been waiting for the 
summer and waiting for the fall; I have been waiting 
for the winter and waiting for the spring; waiting for 
the night and waiting for the morning; waiting and 
dawdling and dreaming, until the day is almost spent 
and the twilight close at hand. 

Used by permission of 

A. C. McClurg & Co., Publishers. 


( Page 

Twenty-Six 


) 


-Pictures of jSHemorp 


WINDING UP TIME 

A wee, brown maid on the doorstep sat, 

Her small face hid ’neath a wide-brimmed hat. 

A broken clock on her baby knee 

She wound with an ancient, rusty key. 

“What are you doing, my pretty one? 

Playing with Time?” I asked in fun. 

Large and wise were the soft, dark eyes, 

Lifted to mine in a grave surprise; 

‘Tse windin’ him up, to make him go, 

For he’s so drefful pokey and slow.” 

Winding up Time? Ah, baby mine, 

How crawl these lengthened moments of thine, 

How sadly slow goes the staid old man, 

But he has not changed, since the world began, 

He does not change, but in after years, 

When he mingles our cup of joy with tears; 

And duties are many, and pleasures fleet, 

And the way grows rough ’neath our tired feet, 
When the day is too short for its crowd of cares, 
And night surprises us unawares, 

We do not wish to hurry his feet, 

But find his going all too fleet. 

Ah, baby mine, some future day, 

You will throw that rusted key away 
And to Phoebus’ car will madly cling, 

As it whirs along, like a winged thing, 

And wonder how, years and years ago, 

You could ever have thought that Time was slow. 

—Hannah B. Gage 



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A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER 

Say, what’s the use o’ bein’ a kid, 

An’ mamma’s treasure, an’ sich as that, 
When all the cookies an’ things is hid, 

An’ her a sayin’ they’re hid from the cat? 

I set on the porch every day an’ try 

To think from the way that this house is run 
If I oughtn’t to skip an’ leave ’em shy 
Of a kid the size o’ their precious son! 
Wouldn’t it cork ’em? 

They abuse me jes’ every way they can, 

An’ all a pertendin’ to love me, too, 

An’ call me their pretty little man— 

But men wouldn’t stand it the way I do I 
I’d jes’ like to know what they borned me fur. 
Or didn’t born me a girl, so they 
Could tell my mamma I look like her, 

An’ then I’d get cookies every day. 

Jes’ my luck. 

They put me in twousers t’other day, 

But I am disgusted with the kind! 

Ain’t built fur a little man, fur they 
Haint no hip pockets in ’em behind. 

The legs ain’t cweased. an’ they bag way out 
An’ I heard a gentleman tell my mother 
I look like a hop-toad, jes’ about 
As wide one way as I’m long the other 
Wouldn’t that gag you? 

My mamma calls me her little dear, 

Her baby treasure, her only hope, 

An’ says that the angels brought me here 
When I wasn’t bigger ’n a pound of soap. 

But say, if the angels had me, though, 

Up there in the sky, as she says they did, 
D’ye reckon they’d ever let me go? 

’N part with sich a bootiful kid? 

Not on your tintype! 

Well, sich is life in the Wooly West, 

As papa says when his things go wrong, 

’N, I reckon I’ve got to do the best 
I kin, an’ keep a joggin’ along. 

Don’t do no good, not a little bit, 

To set on the step an’ worry so! 

Will worryin’ find them cookies? Nit! 

But it’s mighty tough on a kid! Heigh hoi 
It makes me tired! 

—James Barton Adams 


(Tvrenty-Eight) PctureS of Jfflemorp 


FAREWELL TO MY BOY 

By Mary Worrall. Hudson 
Each brief moment, each smallest measure of 
The long span of time, is, to some mother’s boy, 

The foot of the hill of years. Thy starting 
Time is now, my boy! Thy first steps were trodden 
On my heart—fond pillow that would ever- 
More support thee—but thou hast lived well-nigh 
Thy first score years in this safe home, although 
It seems as many months to her who sees 
Thee go, and now has come a time when even 
Heart-strings must not keep thee. Then, let thy 
Mother speed thee! The way looks easy, not because 
’Tis smooth and free from barricades, for ’tis 
Beset with heights and depths thy kindling eye 
Foreseest well, but because thy youthful feet 
Tread buoyant air, the unseen wings of Hope 
Upbear thee, and dragging Doubt has never 
Met thee. To scale the heights and leap the depths 
Were pleasant tasks to my brave boy. Look to 
The topmost notch! Hold to thyself, and lend 
A hand to him behind, while mother speeds thee! 
Count ea,oh year of the great hill thou climbest 
As a well-learned book. Be true to the 
Monitor that ever whispers, “Do unto 
Others as thou would’st that all the world should 
Do to thee.” No long-drawn creed can make it 
Plainer, no modem eloquence can add 
Nor spare a single word: “As thou would’st 
That others do to thee, so do to them,” 

Amen. May heaven send thee love to cheer 
Thee on thy way—true, steadfast love of woman. 

And if thou’rt ever tempted to be false 

To her whose heart beats but for thee, stop and 

Rest thyself on a repenting stone; the 

Wayside’s lined with them, thou wilt not need to 

Search but for the hardest; then sit thee down 

And bow thy head upon thy hands and listen 

To the call of her who bore thee. Thou art 

A man: the heart that trusts itself to thee 

Is at thy mercy; none else can make for 

It a heaven or hell on earth. Ever 

Tender to all weaker things, thou could’st not 

Now prove traitor to a woman—strongest 

Though weakest, of God’s creatures. Her heart will 

Be like mine, thy mother’s—such fate would break it. 

“Fear not!” I hear thee say. Now thy mother 


pictures! of iWcmorp ( Twenty P Z) 


Trusts thee! Then speed thee on, and bless thee! 
Honor the dauntless soul that, with me, calls 
Thee son, and whose brave spirit, shining forth 
In thee, has been my chiefest joy and is 
Thy best inheritance. Scale all the heights! 

Sing all the songs! Achievement is its own 
Reward. But if, dear boy, the blackest depths 
Engulf thee, come home to us—our hearts would 
Yearn for thee if all the world turned back. 

June, 1889. 


“BABY, GO TO BED.” 

Almost any man can say it, 

Can say, “Baby, go to bed;” 

But how many can enforce it 
When a little tousle-head 
Perks his head up sort of sideways 
In the way we daddies know 
And says, half a smile, half tearful 
“Papa, me don’t ’ants to doe.” 

And pleads: “Me ain’t s’eepy, papa, 

Me don’t ’ants to doe to bed.” 

And you see the curls a-tumble 
On the little baby head; 

And you look up at his mother 
In a deprecating way, 

And you hide behind your paper 
And you let the baby play. 

Yes, most any dad can say it, 

Can say, “Baby, go to bed,” 

But how many can enforce it 
When a little tousle-head 
Says: “I’ms busy now a-p’ayin,” 

Whispers soft, “Don’t papa know?” 

Saying, ”I’ms ain’t s’eepy, papa,” 

Pleading, “Pm don’t ’ants to doe.” 

—Judd Mortimer Lewis 


(5X» ) futures of iHcmorp 


SECOND BOYHOOD 

He had a willow whistle and a fish hook that had been 

Made with a youngster’s witchery by the bending of 
a pin; 

He’d cut a slender sapling for a pole and made a line 

From little scraps of hempen cord and little snips of 
twine; 

His feet were bare, head tousled—but his smile was 
good to see, 

And when I looked at him it brought my boyhood 
back to mel 

He put his willow whistle to his lips and blew a blast 

That echoed down the valleys where the blooms were 
tangled fast; 

Another youngster joined him, with another tousled 
head, 

And on the conquering hero his recruited comrade led. 

They wandered off in glory and I watched them as in 
dream, 

And I went with them down yonder to the little 
fishing stream. 

That day I saw them feeling, where the water ran so 
cool, 

Its ripples lave their bare feet as they dangled in the 
pool, 

And I could see them shedding shirt and overalls with 
vim 

As they turned aside from fishing for an old-time 
boyhood swim. 

Ah, never felt the water half so good or half so fine 

As in that hour of fancy with those boyhood friends of 
mine! 

I saw them leave the ripples when the afternoon drew 
near, 

And the summer sunshine sizzled the oppressive 
atmosphere. 

They struck across the meadows for a neighboring 
melon field 

To test the juicy fragrance of the huge and fruitful 
yield; 

I saw them try the peaches, and amid the orchard’s 
hush 

Taste the golden, mellow apples that we called the 
maiden’s blush! 


pictures of JWemorp ( Ihirty . p 0 r) 

I saw them come at evening with a string of “yellow 
neds,” 

Their tousled topnots showing through the straw hats 
on their heads, 

Brown as twin autumn berries and as happy as the 
birds 

With songs to tell the gladness that they could not tell 
in words— 

And how I longed to go with them unto the garret room 

To heal life’s sweetest tiredness with the sleep that 
dreams of bloom! 

A youngster with a whistle whittled out of willow 
wood— 

How little could he know of all he brought me of good, 

How little could he fathom that beside the little stream 

I sat in silent shadow dreaming all his boyhood dream! 

How little could he understand that in his careless glee 

The gates of youth had swung again that golden day 
for me! 

—Folger McKinsey 


THE DREAM GARDEN 

Dear old garden of long ago— 

Part of my childhood’s memories,— 

Holley-hocks nod in your farthest row 
Under the linden trees. 

Box bordered pathways with mignonette 
Crowding right over the edges,— 

Methinks I can whiff the fragrance yet 
Of your lavender and sedges. 

But dearest of all in that garden old 
Was the spicy clove-pink cluster, 

Bursting its sweetness—too much to hold— 
Over the pale leaves lustre. 

Sunshine, and shade from the linden trees, 

A book to read, and a dream to dream;— 

Youth in the heart and youth in the breeze,— 
And a precious old romance the theme. 

We have all loitered there;—you and I, 

The trees, the book, the dream and the sky! 

—Bessie Bellman 


(Thirty-Two ) pictures of Jfflemorp 


AUCTIONING OFF THE BABY 

What am I offered for Baby? 

Dainty, dimpled and sweet 
From the curls above his forehead 
To the beautiful rosy feet, 

From the tips of his wee pink fingers 
To the light of his clear blue eyes. 

What am I offered for Baby? 

Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? 

What am I offered for Baby? 

“A shop full of sweets?” Ah, no! 

That’s too much beneath his value 
Who is sweetest of all below! 

The naughty, beautiful darling! 

One kiss from his rosy mouth 
Is better than all the dainties 
Of East, or West, or South. 

What am I offered for Baby? 

“A pile of gold?” Ah dear, 

Your gold is too hard and heavy 
To purchase my brightness here. 

Would the treasures of all the Mountains 
Far in the Wonderful lands, 

Be worth the clinging and clasping 
Of these dear little peach blow hands? 

So what am I offered for Baby? 

“A rope of diamonds?” Nay, 

If your brilliants were larger and brighter 
Than the stars in the milky way, 

Would they ever be half so precious 
As the light of those lustrous eyes, 

Still full of the heavenly glory 

They brought from beyond the skies? 

Then what am I offered for Baby? 

“A heart full of love and a kiss;” 

Well if anything ever could tempt me 
’Twould be such an offer as this: 

But how can I know if your loving 
Is tender, and true and divine 
Enough to repay what I am giving 
In selling this sweetheart of mine? 

So we will not sell the Baby! 

Your gold and gems and stuff, 

Were they ever so rare and precious 
Would never be half enough! 

For what would we care, my dearie, 

What glory the World put on 
If our beautiful darling was going, 

If our beautiful darling was gone. 

—Mary T. Holley. 

























lectures of jftlemorp ( Thirty-Three ) 


SOME DAY 

Some day we’re going to wander—you and I, 

Back, back to pleasant paths we used to know, 

And welcome once again with tear-dimmed eye, 

The old days of the happy Long Ago. 

And O, the joy with which the heart will glow, 

As we clasp hands with friends so long unseen, 

And meet again the ones we cherish so, 

Whose faces flash from Recollection’s screen. 

We’ll see them smile, as in the old, old way, 

Some day, dear heart, some day. 

Some day we’re going back for one brief view, 

To where the old familiar homestead stands, 

And there the joys of youth we will renew, 

Caressed and loved again by gentle hands. 

Yes, in those dear and ne’er forgotten lands 
We’ll wander, with a glad and joyous heart, 

And bind anew the lost or broken strands 
Of Memory, which Time has torn apart. 

O’er blossomed fields of youth again we’ll stray, 

Some day, dear heart, some day. 

Some day we’ll know the mother-love again 

Which we have missed, mayhap, for dreary years; 

We’ll smooth the wrinkled brow and cheek, and then 
All tenderly, we’ll wipe away the tears. 

Then once again, bereft of doubts and fears, 

We’ll lay our head on mother’s gentle breast, 

And hear the songs of childhood in our ears, 

As in the days she rocked us to our rest. 

And at her knee our childhood prayer we’ll pray, 

Some day, dear heart, some day. 

—E. A. Brininstool 


MOTHER’S BOY 

Make rowdy music, little onel 
Make rowdy mirth and song! 

It is for life like this, my own, 

That I have watched you long. 
Romp in your merry ways apart, 
And shout in freedom wild; 

But creep at night time to my heart, 
A tired little child. 


—Cora A. Watson 


/Page 

\ Thirty-Four 


) Pictures of iHtmorp 


ON THE BIRTH OF A BABE 

Yesterday morning there was a strange and un¬ 
usual commotion in Heaven. A little angel, with big 
black eyes, and the softest of white wings, asked St. 
Peter to let him out of the pearly gates. The good 
saint hesitated—he was loth to lose so sweet a creature, 
but when the little angel told him he would come back 
sometime, the gate was opened a trifle, and the treasure 
crept out. Of course he came right down to earth, 
and, peering anxiously around, he found no pleasanter, 
easier home than that of Mrs. Skiff. It was very 
early in the morning and so he slipped quietly in through 
the door, and, snuggling up close to the lady, said: 
“I am a little angel, and you must be very good to me. 
I will stay with you always, and when you are old and 
weak you will be very glad the little angel came to 
you.” Mrs. Skiff bade the stranger angel welcome, and 
just then good Dr. French, happening to pass the house 
heard sweet music that he knew could only come from 
Heaven. So he went in and saw the little angel on the 
couch. In a moment his keen lancet was out, and 
he had clipped off the wings of the little angel, and 
they had flown back to Heaven alone. “This is too 
precious a treasure to lose” said the doctor; “We 
must keep him with us always,” and so the little angel 
stays, a joy to the home he has found on earth, and a 
pride to those whom he will, God willing, call father 
and mother. Let us hope the angels in Heaven may 
not so miss their absent cherub that they will say, 
“Come back.” But when the summons comes, let it 
come from the lips of the father and mother on the 
confines of the Beautiful, away over there in the 
Beyond. 

—Eugene Field 


THEY TWO 

They are left alone in the dear old home, 
After so many years, 

When the house was full of frolic and fun, 
Of childish laughter and tears. 

They are left alone, they two—once more 
Beginning life over again, 

Just as they did in the days of yore, 
Before they were nine or ten. 


pictures of JHemorp ( ThiI J F a ") 


And the table is set for two these days 
The children went one by one 
Away from home on their separate ways 
When the childhood days were done. 

How healthily hungry they used to be! 

What romping they used to do! 

And mother—for weeping— can hardly see 
To set the table for two. 

They used to gather around the fire 
While some one would read aloud, 

But whether at study or work or play 
'Twas a loving and merry crowd. 

And now they are two that gather there 
At evening to read or sew, 

And it seems almost too much to bear 
When they think of the long ago. 

Ah, well—ah, well, 'tis the way of the world! 

Children stay but a little while 
And then into other scenes are whirled, 

Where other homes beguile; 

But it matters not how far they roam 
Their hearts are fond and true, 

And there's never a home like the dear old home 
Where the table is set for two. 

—A. E. K. 


THE OLD, OLD SONG 

When all the world is young, lad, 

And all the trees are green; 

And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen— 

Then hey for boot and horse lad, 

And round the world away; 

Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, 

And all the trees are brown; 

And all the sport is stale, lad, 

And all the wheels run down— 

Creep home, and take your place there, 

The spent and maimed among; 

God grant you find one face there 
You loved when all was young. 

—Charles Kingsley 


( Page 
Thirty-Six 


) Pictures of Jfflemorp 


THE BROKEN NOSE 

We’ve got a baby. Since it came 
There’s not a single thing the same. 

I act just like I did before, 

But no one loves me any more. 

I guess I’d better run away. 

I might as well, for if I stay 
Who’ll know or care? Perhaps a year 
Will pass before they even hear. 

I’ll take the things I like the best, 

My Sunday tie, my velvet vest, 

The spotted eggs and bluebird’s nest, 

The autumn leaves that mother pressed, 

The rabbit skin that father dressed, 

All these I’ll take and go out west. 

I ought to start, but O, the sky 
Is dark to-day and very highl 
Still, after all, I guess I’ll wait 
For father by the garden gate. 

He’ll maybe rough my hair and say: 

“Well, well, my boy! How goes the day? 
You’re big enough to make it pay.” 

O dear! I wish he’d come, though he 
May never notice me— 

And yet I guess I’ll wait and see. 

—Louise Ayres Garnett 

Republished through the courtesy of 
The American Magazine, copyrighted by 
The Phillips Publishing Co., 1906. 


BEDTIME 

Last year my bedtime was at eight 
And every single night 
I used to jrish the clock would wait, 
Or else stay out of sight. 

It always seemed to me 
The next half hour’d be 
The nicest time of all the day 
If mother would agree. 

But she always shook her head, 

And she sort of jumped and said: 
“Why, it’s late—after eight— 

And it’s time you were in bed.” 


pictures! of iflemorp ( Thirty i:, 2 n e ) 


And now my bedtime is ha’-past 
But yet that old clock does 
The same mean tricks—it’s just as fast, 

Or faster than it was. 

Last night it seemed to me 
The next half-hour’d be 
The nicest time of all the day 
If mother would agree. 

But she smiled and shook her head, 

And she kissed me while she said: 

“Why, it’s late—ha-past eight— 

And it’s time you went to bed!” 

—Burges Johnson 


“LITTLE BOY BLUE” 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 

But sturdy and staunch he stands; 

And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket molds in his hands. 

Time was when the little toy dog was new 
And the soldier was passing fair, 

That was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
Kissed them and put them there. 

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said, 

“And don’t you make any noise!” 

So, toddling off to the trundle-bed 
He dreampt of the pretty toys. 

And as he was dreaming, an angel song 
Awakened our Little Boy Blue,— 

Oh, the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true. 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 

Each in the same old place, 

Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face. 

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through, 
In the dust of that little chair, 

What has become of our Little Boy Blue 
Since he kissed them and left them there. 

—Eugene Field 

From “A Little Book of Western Verse;” 

Copyright 1889 by Eugene Field; 

Published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


(Thfrty-Eigh«) ^Jtctureg of jHemorp 


THE DEAD PUSSY CAT 

You’s as stiff an’ as cold as a stone, 

Little cat! 

Dey’s done frowed out and left you alone 
Little cat! 

Fse astrokin’ you’ fur, 

But you don’t never purr 
Nor hump up anywhere, 

Little cat 
W’y is dat! 

Is you’s pun-in’ and humpin’ up done? 

An’ w’y fer is you’s little foot tied, 

Little cat? 

Did dey pisen you’s tummick inside, 

Little cat? 

Did dey pound you wif bricks 
Or wif big nasty sticks 
Or abuse you wif kicks, 

Little cat? 

Tell me dat. 

Did dey holler w’enever you cwied? 

Did it hurt werry bad w’en you died 
Little cat? 

Oh! w’y didn’t you wun off and hide, 

Little cat. 

I is wet in my eyes 
’Cos I ’most always cwies, 

When a pussy cat dies, 

Little cat, 

And I’se awfully solly besides. 

Dest lay still dere down in de sof’ gwown, 

Little cat. 

While I tucks de gween gwass all awound, 

Little cat. 

Dey can’t hurt no more 
W’en you’s tired an’ so sore— 

Des’ sleep twiet, you pore 
Little cat, 

Wif a pat, 

An’ forget all de kicks of de town. 

Jack Bennett, Charleston, S. C. 


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pictures of jWemorp ( TUrty S) 


THE BABY’S SHOES 

Lay them away, stained by a mother’s tears; 
Precious keepsakes through the coming years. 

The baby’s shoes, the tips now slightly worn, 

Their springheels frayed by running o’er the floor— 
Lay them away, with heartstrings wrenched and tom, 
For baby’s feet will wear them never more. 

But through the gloom of all the coming years 
The baby’s shoes will ope the fount of tears. 

Lay them away, and sacred memory 
Will cluster ’round them till his face we see— 

Until in robes of angels’ purest white, 

With harp swept by his little fingers blest 
His smile will banish all the gloom of night 
And call us to the Father’s endless rest. 
Those little shoes 1 Through all the coming years 
They’ll speak of him, and fill our eyes with tears. 

Lay them awayl No more will baby’s feet 
Run to the gate with patt’ring music sweet. 

Upon the shores of brighter, endless day 
He stands. He smiles and waves his hand; 

And after we have quit life’s weary way 
We’ll greet our baby in that better land. 

And so we’ll keep these shoes through all the years, 
And they shall banish all our doubts and fears. 

—Will M. Maupin 


MAY I NOT WEEP WITH YOU 

Let me come in where you sit weeping—aye, 

Let me, who have not any child to die, 

Weep with you for the little one whose love 
I have known nothing of. 

The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed 

Their pressure round your neck—the hands you used 

To kiss—such arms—such hands—I never knew, 

May I not weep with you? 

Fain would I be of service—say something 
Between the tears, that would be comforting, 

But Ohl so sadder than yourself am I, 

Who have not any t child to diel 

—James Whitcomb Riley " 

Used by kind permission of 
The Bobb-Merrill Company. 


(ES ) flittur^ of Jfflemorp 

EXTRACT FROM “ARTHUR BONNICASTLE” 

by 

Dr. J. G. Holland 

I stand in a darkened room, before a little casket 
that holds the silent form of my first born. My arm 
is around the wife and mother, who weeps over the 
lost treasure, and cannot, till tears have had their way, 
be comforted. I had not thought that my child—that 
my child could die. I knew that other children had 
died, but I felt safe. We lay the little fellow close by 
his grandfather at last; we strew his grave with flowers, 
and then return to our saddened home with hearts 
united in sorrow, as they had never been united in joy, 
and with sympathies forever open toward all who are 
called to a kindred grief. I wonder where he is to-day, 
in what mature angelhood he stands, how he will look 
when I meet him, how he will make himself known to 
me, who has been his teacher! He was like me: will 
his grandfather know him? I can never cease thinking 
of him as cared for and led by the same hand to which 
my own youthful fingers clung, and as hearing from 
the fond lips of my own father the story of his father’s 
eventful life. I feel how wonderful to me has been the 
ministry of my children—how much more I have 
learned from them than they have ever learned from 
me; how, by holding my own strong life in sweet sub¬ 
ordination to their helplessness, they have taught me 
patience, self sacrifice, self control, truthfulness, faith, 
simplicity and purity. 

Ah! This taking to one’s arms a little group of 
souls, fresh from the hand of God, and living with them 
in loving companionship through all their stainless 
years, is, or ought to be, like living in Heaven, for of 
such is the Heavenly kingdom. To no one of these am I 
more indebted than to the boy who went away from me 
before the world had touched him with a stain. The 
key that shut him in the tomb was the only key that 
could unlock my heart and let in among its sympathies 
the world of sorrowing men and women, who mourn 
because their little ones are not. 

The little graves, alas! How many they are! The 
mourners above them, how vast the multitude! Bro¬ 
thers, sisters, I am one with you. I press your hands, I 
weep with you, I trust with you, I belong to you. 
Those waxen, folded hands, that still breast so often 
pressed warm to our own, those sleep bound eyes 


Page \ 
Forty-One ) 


^tcturrs of Jtlcmorp ( 

which have been so full of love and life, that sweet, 
unmoving alabaster face—ah! we have all looked upon 
them and they have made us one and made us better. 

There is no fountain which the angel of healing 
troubles with his restless and life-giving wings so 
constantly as the fountain of Tears, and only those 
too lame and bruised to bathe, miss the blessed in¬ 
fluence. 

Published by permission of 
Charles Scribner’s Sons 


HER LITTLE BOY 

“Always a little boy to her,” 

No matter how old he’s grown, 

Her eyes are blind to the strands of gray, 
She’s deaf to his manly tone. 

His voice is the same as the day he asked, 
“What makes the old cat purr?” 

Ever and ever he’s just the same— 

A little boy to her. 

“Always a little boy to her,” 

She heeds not the lines of care 
That furrow his face—to her it is still 
As it was in his boyhood, fair. 

His hopes and his joys are as dear to her 
As they were in his small-boy days. 

He never changes; to her he’s still 
“My little boy,” she says. 

“Always a little boy to her,” 

And to him she’s the mother fair, 

With the laughing eyes and the cheering smile 
Of the boyhood days back there. 

Back there, somewhere in the mist of years— 
Back there with the childish joy, 

And to her he is never the man we see, 

But always “her little boy.” 

“Always a little boy to her,” 

The ceaseless march of the years 
Goes rapidly by, but its drumbeats die 
Ere ever they reach her ears. 

The smile that she sees is the smile of youth 
The wrinkles are dimples of joy, 

His hair with its gray is as sunny as May— 
He is always “her little boy.” 


—Unidentified 


(Forty-Two ) pictures of Jflemorp 


LITTLE BREECHES 

I don’t go much on religion, 

I never ain’t had no show; 

But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir, 

On the handful o’ things I know. 

I don’t pan out on the prophets 

And free-will, and that sort of thing— 
But I b’lieve in God and the angels, 

Ever sence one night last spring. 

I come into town with some turnips, 

And my little Gabe come along,— 

No four-year-old in the country 

Could beat him for pretty and strong, 
Peart and chipper and sassy, 

Always ready to swear and fight— 

And I’d lamt him to chaw terbacker 
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. 

The snow come down like a blanket 
As I passed by Taggart’s store; 

I went in for a jug of molasses 
And left the team at the door. 

They scared at something and started,— 

I heard one little squall, 

And hell-to-split over the prairie 
Went team, Little Breeches and all. 

Hell-to-split over the prairie l 
I was almost froze with skeer; 

But we rousted up some torches, 

And searched for ’em far and near. 

At last we struck hosses and wagon, 
Snowed under a soft white mound, 
Upsot, dead beat,—but of little Gabe 
No hide nor hair was found. 

And here all hope soured on me, 

Of my fellow-critter’s aid,— 

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, 
Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. 


By this, the torches was played out, 
And me and Isrul Parr 
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 
That he said was somewhar thar. 



pictures of Mmovv ( Forty .*Z) 


We found it at last, and a little shed 
Where they shut up the lambs at night. 

We looked in and seen them huddled thar, 

So warm and sleepy and white; 

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, 

As peart as ever you see, 

"I want a chaw of terbacker, 

And that’s what’s the matter of me.” 

How did he git thar? Angels. 

He could never have walked in that storm 
They jest scooped down and toted him 
To whar it was safe and warm. 

And I think that saving a little child, 

And fotching him to his own, 

Is a derned sight better business 
Than loafing around the Throne. 

—John Hay 

Printed by permission 
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 


GRANDMA PAYS THE BILL 

Before the busy merchant 
Stood pretty little Bess, 

, “I want some cloff for dolly, 

Enough to make a dress.” 

“What color? Little lady!” 

The pleasant dealer said. 

“Why, don’t you know?” she answered, 
“I want it awful red.” 

He smiled and cut the fabric 
For the delighted Miss. 

“What does it cost?” she questioned. 

He answered, “Just one kiss.” 

And then the clerks who heard her 
Went roaring up and down. 

“My Dran’ma said she’d pay you 
Next time she tome up town.” 

—Harry Edward Mill 


( Page 
Forty-Four 


) 


pictures! of iftlemorp 


WINTON AND VIRGINIA 

Soft dim shadows fall around me 
Ere the evening turns to night, 

And sweet pictures of their childhood 
I can see with memory’s sight. 

I can hear their voices calling 
Calling gaily in their glee, 

“Ginia,” turn here a minty 
“Oo mus turn and pay wis me.” 

Then the other answering blue eyes 
Sparkling eyes of darker hue, 

Answers back, with maiden coyness 
“If ’oo turn heah I’ll pay wif ’oo. 

Back and forth with sweet persistence 
Each to each the other calls 
All the time the distance lessning 
As they approach with soft foot falls. 

Soon their curls of blond and golden 
Mingle close in baby way, 

As they plan with deepest interest 
All the mysteries of their play. 

Sometimes little clouds appearing 
Hide their sunshine of its light, 

And these little toddler’s sorrows 
Are to them of mountain height. 


Now I see the little maiden 
Lonely, wandering by my door, 

And she, turning, asks me gently, 

Asks this question o’er and o’er: 

“Did de angels turn for Winton,” 

“Tan I do to him tome day?” 

“If Dod tates me up to Heben 
“An I tee him der, I’ll ’tay.” 

—Georgia McCoy 









pictures of iWemorp ( * ort ^) 


TIRED MOTHERS 

A little elbow leans upon your knee, 

Your tired knee that has so much to bear; 

A child’s dear eyes are looking lovingly 
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair; 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; 
You do not prize this blessing overmuch, 

You almost are too tired to pray tonight. 

But it is blessedness I A year ago 
I did not see it as I do today— 

We are so dull and thankless; and too slow 
To catch the sunshine till it slips away, 

And now it seems surpassing strange to me 
That while I wore the badge of motherhood, 

I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 
The little child that brought me only good. 

And if some night when you sit down to rest 
You miss this elbow from your tired knee; 

This restless, curly head from off your breast; 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 

If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped 
And ne’er would nestle in your lap again; 

If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 

I could not blame you for your heartache then. 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret 
At little children clinging to their gown; 

Or that the footprints when the days are wet 
Are ever black enough to make them frown. 

If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap or jacket on my chamber floor; 

If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my house once more; 

If I could mend a broken cart today, 

Tomorrow make a kite to reach the sky— 

There is no woman in God’s world could say 
She was more blissfully content than I. 

But, ah I the dainty pillow next my own 
Is never rumpled by a shining head— 

My singing birdling from its nest is flown; 

The little one I used to kiss is dead. 

—Mary Louise Riley Smith 


) pictures of jflemorp 


( Page 
Forty-Six 


BOY O’ DREAMS 

Must I leave you in the mountains, 

Boy o’ Dreams? 

Must I leave you where the fountains 
Toss the silver of their streams— 

Where the trees are clothed in samite 
And the little broken moon 
Is a symbol and an answer 
Like the reading of a rune? 

May I take you to the city, 

Boy o’ Dreams— 

Where your heart will break with pity 
At the lethargy that seems 
Only half alive to living, 

Only enemy to mirth, 

Where the dusty facts will blind you 
To the fancies of the earth? 

I must take you, but I’ll keep you, 

Boy o’ Dreams, 

Where no alien winds shall sweep you, 

In a secret place that gleams 
With the light of your own laughter— 

Yours the vessel, yours the chart— 

And we’ll brave the storms together, 

You—the captain of my heart! 

—Helen Whitney in Collier’s 


THE HOUSE OF TOO MUCH TROUBLE 

In the House of Too Much Trouble 
Lived a lonely little boy; 

He was eager for a playmate, 

He was hungry for a toy. 

But ’twas always too much bother, 
Too much dirt, and too much noise, 
For the House of Too Much Trouble 
Wasn’t meant for little boys. 

And sometimes the little fellow 
Left a book upon the floor, 

Or forgot and laughed too loudly, 

Or he failed to close the door. 

In the House of Too Much Trouble 
Things must be precise and trim— 
In a House of Too Much Trouble 
There was little room for him. 


pictures of Jtlemorp ( Forty .^) 


He must never scatter playthings, 

He must never romp and play; 

Ev’ry room must be in order 
And kept quiet all the day. 

He had never had companions, 

He had never owned a pet— 

In the House of Too Much Trouble 
It is trim and quiet yet. 

Ev’ry room is set in order— 

Every book is in its place, 

And the lonely little fellow 
Wears a smile upon his face. 

In the House of Too Much Trouble 
He is silent and at rest— 

In the House of Too Much Trouble, 

With a lily on his breast. 

—Albert Bigelow Paine 


WHO CAN TELL WHAT A BABY THINKS 

What does he think of his mother's eyes? 

What does he think of his mother’s hair? 
What of the cradle-rcof that flies 

Forward and backward through the air? 
What does he think of his mother’s breast— 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight— .1 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest? 

What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 

Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds— 

Words she has learned to murmur well? 

Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep! 

I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, 

Over his brow, and over his lips, 

Out to his little finger-tips! 

Softly sinking, down he goes! 

Down he goes! Down he goes! 

See! He is hushed in sweet repose! 

J. G. Holland 


(£&*■** ) Pictures of iflemorp 


A GREETING 

I’m glad she’s come, this bit of grace 
To make our love grow on apace, 

The first to seal our marriage vow— 

A tender link—ah, even now 
She casts a ray from mother’s facel 

I long for license to embrace 
This bunch of flannels and of lace, 

To tell her how, in heart, just how 
I’m glad she’s come. 

The joy I feel none can efface, 

And yet I live in piteous case; 

I only stand and humbly bow, 

My usual post they’ll not allow; 

But though I yield to her my place, 

I’m glad she’s come! 

—Thomas Emmet Dewey 


BOYS 

Boys’ll soon be playin’ hookey, 

You kin find ’em, bless their souls, 
Out along the twisty bayou 
In th’ finest swimmin’ holes, 

Doin’ all the stunts that we did 
When we used to run away 
From our schools away back yonder— 
Or was it just yesterday? 

It don’t seem like ’way back yonder, 

It seems more like just last week 
When we’d start out, faces shinin’ 

And our hair combed just as sleek 
As could be, for the old school house 
Till we turned the comer, then 
It would be a helter-skelter 
For the swimmin’ hole again. 

It’s like breakin’ colts to harness 
Bringin’ of a boy up right; 

You must see the lines don’t chafe him, 
That his bridle ain’t too tight, 

That the first ways that you drive him 
Are the ways he’d like to go, 

Gentlin’ him an’ talking to him, 

Goin’ carefully an’ slow. 


Pictures! of JWemorp ( Forty P Z) 

When you’ve got your colt well broken, 

Trained him so he’ll gee an’ haw, 

So he’ll come when you shall call him, 

So he’ll brace himself an’ draw 
For each pound that there is in him, 

So he knows his home an’ stall, 

Spite of all the care you give h im , 

He’ll be just a horse, that’s all. 

But a boy—there ain’t no tellin’ 

What he won’t be, guided right; 

So when your boy plays at hookey, 

Runs away or has a fight, 

Then’s the time to get close to him, 

Not turn from him with a frown 
Like the universe was crumpled 
By his acts, and tumblin’ down. 

So when he comes home some evenin’ 

With his shirt on wrongside out, 

An’ his collar soft an’ wilted, 

An’ his hair all tossed about, 

Don’t bear down too hard upon him 
Like he’d done some fearful pr im p- 
He’s just been anticipatin’ 

Of the glad vacation time. 

—Judd Mortimer Lewis 


TO A HURT CHILD 

What, are you hurt, Sweet? So am I; 

Cut to the heart; 

Though I may neither moan nor cry, 

To ease the smart. 

Where was it, Love? Just here! So wide 
Upon your cheek! 

Oh happy pain that needs no pride, 

And may dare speak. 

Lay here your pretty head. One touch 
Will heal its worst, 

While I, whose wound bleeds overmuch, 

Go all unnursed. 

There, Sweet. Run back now to your play 
Forget your woes. 

IJtoo/was sorely hurt this day,— 

But no one knows. 

—Grace Denio Litchfield 




(Eg ) pictures of jHemorp 


TWO LITTLE BOOTS 

Two little boots all rough and wo’, 

Two little boots 1 

Laws, I’s kissed 'em times befo’, 

Dese Little Boots! 

Seems de toes a-peepin’ thoo 
Dis hyeah hole an' sayin’ “Bool” 

Eveh time dey looks at you— 

Dese little boots. 

Membah de time he put ’em on, 

Dese little boots; 

Riz an’ called fu’ ’em by dawn, 

Dese little boots; 

Den he tromped de livelong day 
Laffin’ in his happy way, 

Eveht’ing he had to say, 

“My little boots!” 

Kickin’ de san’ de whole day long, 

Dem little boots; 

Good de cobblah made ’em strong, 

Dem little boots! 

Rocks was fu’ dat baby’s use, 

I’on had to stan’ abuse 

W’en you tu’ned dese champeens loose, 

Dese little boots! 

Ust to make de ol’ cat cry, 

Dese little boots; 

Den you walked it mighty high, 

Proud little boots! 

Ahms akimbo, stan’in’ wide, 

Eyes a-sayin’ “Dis is pride!” 

Den de manny-baby stride! 

You little boots. 

Somehow, you don’ seem so gay, 

Po’ little boots, 

Sence yo’ ownah went erway, 

Po’ little boots! 

Yo’ bright tops don’ look so red, 

Dese brass tips is dull an’ dead; 

“Goo’-by,” what de baby said; 

Deah little boots! 

Ain’t you kin’ o’ sad yo’se’f, 

You little boots? 

Dis is all his mammy’s lef’, 

Two little boots. 

Sence huh baby gone an’ died, 

Heav’n itse’f hit seem to hide 
Des a little bit inside 
Two little boots. 

Paul Laurence Dunbar 

Printed through courtesy 
Dodd, Mead & Co, 
























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pictures! of Jfflemorp ( 

BEST 

Mother, I see you with your nursery light, 

Leading your babies, all in white, 

To their sweet rest; 

Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine tonight, 

And that is best. 

I cannot help tears when I see them twine 
Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine 
On your warm breast. 

But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine. 

He can love best. 

You tremble each hour because your arms 
Are weak; your heart is wrung with alarms 
And sore opprest: 

My darlings are safe, out of reach of harm 
And that is best. 

You know over yours may hang even now 
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow, 

Naught can arrest. 

Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, 

And that is best. 

You know that of yours, your feeblest one 
And dearest, may live long years alone, 

Unloved, unblest. 

Mine entered spotless on eternal years, 

Oh, how much the best. 

But grief is selfish; I cannot see 
Always why I should stricken be, 

More than the rest: 

But I know that, as well as for them, for me 
God did the best. 

—Helen Hunt Jackson 

Published by permission of 

Litte, Brown & Co., Boston. 

MOTHER-BORN 

Since fate hath given thee no child 
To lie within thine arm, 

That by its presence undefiled 
Should keep the soul from harm, 

If thou wert truly mother-bom 
Thou would'st have played the part, 

And found some little one forlorn 
To fold within thy heart. 


—Wm. Briggs 


(F^fty-Two ) pictures of iWcmorp 

A LITTLE GIRL’S WISH 

“I wish I was a boy” said our May, 

The tears in her great eyes of blue, 

*‘I’m only a wee little lassie, 

There’s nothing a woman can do. 

“’Tis so, I heard Cousin John say so, 

He’s home from a great college, too; 

He said so, just now, in the parlor, 

‘There’s nothing a woman can do.’ ” 

“My wee little lassie, my darling,” 

Said I, putting back her soft hair, 

“I want you, my dear little maiden, 

To smooth away all mother’s care. 

“Is there nothing you can do, my darling? 

What was it that pa said last night? 

‘My own little sunbeam has been here, 

I know, for the room is so bright.’ 

“And there is a secret, my dearie, 

Perhaps you may learn it some day— 

The hand that is willing and loving 
Will do the most work on the way. 

“And the work that is sweetest and dearest, 

The work that so many ne’er do, 

The great work of making folks happy, 

Can be done by a lassie like you!” 

—The Water Lilt 


“IF I WAS PAW” 

If I was paw and paw was me, 

Gee! what a great thing that ’ud be! 

I wouldn’t whip him just ’cause he 
Went sneakin’ off sometimes to fish; 

And if he’d druther play than go 
To school I’d say “All right,” and oh, 

But would’n’t he have good times though, 
With everything for which he’d wish! 

I’d let him stay up late at night, 

And then I’d go ahead and light 
The gas for him, because he might 
Bump into chairs or things, you see; 

I’ll bet he’d be that glad all day, 

With not a thing to do but play, 

He’d haft to yell, he’d feel so gay, 

If I was paw and paw was me. 


pictures of iflemorp ( Fifty . T p ^) 


If I was in his place I’ll bet 
That everything he’d want he’d get, 

I guess he’d think that he had met 
The kindest paw he ever saw— 

But still I’m glad that I can’t be 
My paw and that he is’n’t me, 

Because if I was him, you see, 

Then maw, she wouldn’t be my maw. 

—S. E. Kiser 


MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED 


Look at his pretty face for just one minute I 
His braided frock and dainty buttoned shoes, 
His firm-shut hand, the favorite plaything in it, 
Then, tell me, mothers, was it not hard to lose 
And miss him from my side,— 

My little boy that died? 


How many another boy, as dear and charming, 

His father’s hope, his mother’s one delight, 

Slips through strange sicknesses, all fear disarming, 
And lives a long, long life in parents’ sight 
Mine was so short a pride: 

And then—my poor boy died. 


I see him rocking on his wooden charger; 

I hear him pattering through the house all day; 

I watch his great blue eyes grow large and larger, 
Listening to stories, whether grave or gay 
Told at the bright fireside— 

So dark now, since he died. 

But yet I often think my boy is living, 

As living as my other children are. 

When good-night kisses I all round am giving 
I keep one for him, though he is so far. 

Can a mere grave divide 
Me from him—though he died? 

So, while I come and plant it o’er with daisies 
(Nothing but childish daisies all year round) 
Continually God’s hand the curtain raises, 

And I can hear his merry voice’s sound, 

And I feel him at my side— 

My little boy that died. 


—Austin Dobson 



(Fifty-Four ) $tcturejs of iWemorp 


THE OLD CIDER MILL 

I always have said and I say it yet, 

That if I could be young again for fifteen minutes 
I’d make a bee fine to the old mill hidden by tangled 
vines 

Where the apples were piled in heaps around, 

Red, yellow and streaked, all over the ground, 

And the old, sleepy horse went round and round 
And turned the wheel as the apples were ground. 

Straight for that old mill I’d start, 

With light bare feet and a lighter heart, 

And a smiling face and an old straw hat, 

And home-made breeches and all of that. 

And when I got there I’d just take a peep 
To see if old cider mill John was asleep. 

And then if he was I’d go hunting around 
Until a good, big, long rye straw I’d found, 

And I’d straddle a barrel and quick begin 
To fill with juice clean up to my chin. 

As old as I am, I can shut my eyes 

And see the yellow jackets and flies 

A-swarming around the juicy cheese 

And bung-holes, drinking as much as they please 

I can see the rich, sweet cider flow 

From under the press, to the tub below, 

And steaming up into my old nose, 

Comes a smell a cider mill only knows. 

You can tell all about your fine old crow, 

Champagne, sherry, and so and so, 

Or anything else from the press or still, 

But just give me the juice of that ’ere old mill 
And a small boy’s suction power 
For a quarter of an hour, 

And the happiest boy you ever saw 
Would be at the end of that ’ere rye straw, 

As long as the power of suction stood 
And the cider tasted good, 

And I’d forego for evermore 

All liquor known on this earthly shore. 

—James Arthur Lodge 


$ttttires of jflemorp ( 


Page \ 
Fifty-Five ) 


GOD KNEW 

God knew how much I hungered 

For roses of the south 

A-wash with morning’s dewy breath— 

He gave me baby’s mouth. 

God knew I dreamed of meadows 

Where children of the skies 

Reflect their blueness in their bloom— 

He gave me baby’s eyes. 

God knew I missed the warmness 
Of nestling and its charms 
To melt my waiting bosom’s ice— 

He gave me baby’s arms. 

God knew my life was empty 
And fruitless naught to prove, 

Was blindly groping for its own— 

He gave me baby’s love. 

—Maude De Verse Newton 


IT NEVER COMES AGAIN 

There are gains for all our losses, 

There are balms for all our pain, 

But when youth, the dream, departs, 

It takes something from our hearts, 

And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better, 

Under manhood’s sterner reign; 

Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 

And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain; 

We behold it everywhere, 

On the earth, and in the air, 

But it never comes again. 

—Richard Henry Stoddard 

From “The Poetical Writings of 

Richard Henry Stoddard 

copyrighted 1880 by Charles Scribners’ Sons 


/Page 
V Fifty-Six 


) pictures! of Jfflemorp 


SWEET AND LOW 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 

Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea! 

Over the rolling waters go, 

Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me; 

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon; 

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, 

Father will come to thee soon; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon: 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

—Tennyson 



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pictures of Jflemorp ( Fifty-Seven ) 


“THE MAN LAND.” 

Little boy, little boy, would you go so soon, 

To the land where the grown man lives? 

Would you barter your toys and your fairy things 
For the things that the grown man gives? 

Would you leave the haven whose doors are set 
With the jewels of Love’s alloy 

For the land of emptiness and regret? 

Would you go, little boy, little boy? 

It’s a land far off, little boy, little boy, 

And the way it is dark and steep; 

And once you have passed through its doors, little boy 
You mayn’t even come back to sleep. 

There is no tucking in, no good-night kiss, 

No mornings of childhood joy. 

It’s passion and pain you give for this, 

Think well, little boy, little boy! 

Little boy, little boy, can’t you see the ghosts 
That live in the land off there; 

The “broken hearts,” “fair hopes,” all dead; 

“Lost faith” and “grim despair?” 

There’s a train for that land in the after years, 

When old Time rushes in to destroy, 

The wall that stands ’tween the joy and the tears— 

So don’t go, little boy, little boy! 

—Maynard Waite 

Published by courtesy of 

the Metropolitan Magazine and 

M, Witmark’s Sons. 

TO A BABY’S PICTURE 

I pushed through the crowded aisle 
Of a down-town picture shop, 

Looking and thinking the while, 

Not knowing just where I should stop. 

Led by an uncertain fancy 
Some treasure attractive to claim, 

When, by a chance and a glance a 
Baby peeped out from a frame. 

In an unuttered eloquence speaking, 

By a sweetness compelling and mild, 

I knew that the thing I was seeking 
Was this face of an innocent child. 

Did truth on earth ever hide, 

Hath innocence anywhere smiled, 

Did purity anywhere bide, 

They’re found in the eyes of a child. 

—Harry Alexander Moore 


( Page 

V Fifty-Eight 


) lectures of Jfflemorp 


“A LIFE LESSON” 

There, little girl, don’t cry; 

They have broken your doll, I know; 

And your tea set blue 
And your play house, too, 

Are things of the long ago; 

But childish trouble will soon pass by, 
There, little girl, don’t cry. 

There, little girl, don’t cry; 

They have broken your slate, I know; 

And the wild glad ways 
Of your school-girl days 
Are things of the long ago; 

But life and love will soon come by; 

There, little girl, don’t cry. 

There, little girl, don’t cry; 

They have broken your heart, I know; 

And the rainbow gleams 
Of your youthful dreams 
Are things of the long ago; 

But Heaven holds all for which you sigh; 
There, little girl, don’t cry. 

—James Whitcomb Riley 

Used by kind permission 
of tha Bobbs-Merrill Company. 


HAPPIER THAN A KING 

When I hustle home at evening, 

And the light shines from the door, 

An’ I see my little baby 
Rollin’ happy on the floor, 

An’ see sister helpin’ mother, 

I’m as tickled as kin be; 

An’ there ain’t no king a-livin’ 

That has got the best o’ me. 

When my little bit o’ baby, 

Yellow hair an’ crimson boots, 

Hears the gate latch after daddy 
She drops everything and scoots; 

Her wee legs are fat and wobbly, 

An’ she can’t walk—not at all— 

But when she hears dad a-comin’ 

You kin bet that she kin crawl. 

Then we all talk all together, 

An’ the baby laughs an’ crows, 

An’ sister’s in my pockets, 

For chewin’-gum she knows 
Is a-hidin’ somewhere for her, 

An’ she gives a shriek o’ glee, 

An’ her ma laughs. No king nowhere 
Ain’t got none the best o’ me. 

—Judd Mortimer Lewis 


pictures of iflemorp ( Fif J-) 


A LITTLE KNOCK 

A little hand came knocking on my door’ 

“Let me turn in: I won’t be bad no more!” 

A little voice in tearful murmur plead— 

Somehow I wish that I had long been dead 
Ere from her knocking I could turn away, 

Ere to her pleading I could answer nay, 

Or yet refuse to ope and let her in, 

Who had so little done of guile or sin. 

Strong as we are to live and do the right, 

We are weak men in anger, we who fight 
The daily battle, bravely and serene, 

Until at home cross-currents intervene; 

A word or action wearies us, and lo, 

Unto our bolted privacy we go, 

Forgetting love, forgetting to be mild 
To patient wife and little pleading child! 

O little hand, that knocked so long for me! 

O little voice, with teardrops in your plea! 

Out of my silent chamber I would fly 

If I could hear once more your plaintive cry, 

If I could reach across the vanished years 
And lift you up and wipe away the tears 
And through these passionate memories in eclipse 
Lay my forgiveness on your little lips! 

No bolt or bar upon my door tonight! 

Here at the window in the evenlight 
I lean my ears to summon once again 
The sound of memory in its sweet refrain, 

And as the zephyr sweeps the apple bloom; 

I lean, O dear one, to thy little tomb! 

I call to thee across the mists to come— 

Why art thou silent and the echoes dumb? 

You would be welcome, darling, if you came 
In the soft night of summer, or the flame 
Of dewey morning on the green-girt hill, 

With your immortal lips to kiss and thrill! 

O door that closed upon you that fair day, 

It should be opened, little one, to stay, 

For grief has taught me through the contrite years 
The cost of anger when we pay with tears! 

—Folger McKinsey 


/Page 
V Sixty 


) pictures of Jfflemorp 


THE LAST WORDS OF MOTHER 

The last words of mother when I left the farm— 

A bright, happy boy, never dreaming of harm— 

She wept, and she left her sweet kiss on my face, 

While looking to God, in the parting, for grace, 

And then as I galloped away she called, “Roy,” 

I turned in my saddle—“God bless you, my boy.” 

The years quickly vanished, I wandered afar, 

Grew reckless and weary, it seemed every star 
Was blotted from Heaven, so dark was my night, 

So cruel my fate, when, at last, shone a light 
In the heart that sin’s curse had long sought to destroy,— 
The last words of mother, “God bless you, my boy.” 
The waves rolled between us, I ne’er saw her more, 
And yet as I’d done in the sweet days of yore, 

I sat in the twilight and sang mother’s songs, 

And wept bitter tears o’er the past and its wrongs. 
When others have cursed me these words gave me joy— 
The last words of mother, “God bless you, my boy.” 
Methinks in the light of that beautiful home, 

When toiling is over, no longer to roam, 

The words that recalled me from sin and its charm, 
When I went a-roaming and left the old farm, 

When mother shall greet me, perchance, then in joy 
She’ll murmur these loved words, “God bless you, my 
boy.” 

—Irene McMillan Glanville 

(Lyrics of the West.) 


pictures! of jWentorp 


( 


Page\ 
Sixty-one/ 


STILL A BOY 

“Still a boy” we heard one say 
To another, half in jest. 

Then fun-wrinkles joined in play 
With a laugh of merry zest; 

And the jolly frame of him 

Shook with bursts of sheerest joy 

As he answered back with vim, 

“Well, Fm glad I’m still a boy!” 

Still a boy—aye, true enough— 

Glad, yet gentle; pure and kind; 

Moulded sure of manly stuff— 

Kind of boy it’s hard to find. 

Kind of boy it’s good to see— 

Man-boy, wholesome, simple, true— 

Kind of boy you’d like to be 
If the choice were left to you. 

Still a boy—how many now 
Have forgot the solemn eye— 

Have forgot the wrinkled brow 
Is the boy’s that once came by? 

Call him back—it is his due; 

Let him come with youth and joy 

Back into the heart of you, 

Laughing, and still a boy. 

Still a boy—ah, well-a-day. 

Boys are scarce enough at best. 

With the rippling roundelay 
Let the boy still be your guest; 

Let him cleave unto your heart 
In boy-confidence and hold— 

Still a boy—the man apart, 

Long, long after he is old. 

Frank Bates Flanner. 


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